Like Minuteman missiles hidden for decades in a Montana silo,
three bristles thrust, in post-menopausal explosions,
through my chin—I never knew the bearded man within.
Come out, come out, Mr. Man, come out. I need a partner,
a running buddy; I need back-up, against citizens-turned-
barbarians—soon, I imagine, they will pick up pitchforks,
begin to chase Earth's dear children. I need a burly man,
a flannel-shirted, fix-it man; a man who will floor his pick-up,
outrun the new shock troopers; a man who knows drill bits,
chain saws, hammers; but a gentle man who stops for fawns;
a man who will drive hunted families north, to the border;
a righteous man who discerns the signs of the times;
a man who dreams of the giant bear Arctodus for protection;
a man who will put on battle vest, camo, flak jacket,
to defend our woods; a man who, with me, pledges to protect the meek.
